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The time had come to tear down the old orchard. For the longest time it had produced fine apples, and the owners had always boasted about their work and home-grown fertilizer. But that was years ago, and with its owners long gone and the trees dead and withered, the farm had gone into default. Its land was returned to the county, and as it goes the developers rolled in.
It had been an odd place for a farm, not terribly far from the center of town, right near the old asylum. It had been cheap land at the time, the owners said, so why not build there?
The foreman came up, signaling to the two bulldozer crews to begin knocking down the old farmhouse and orchards. Not five minutes later horrified screams could be heard from them both. The bulldozer at the house had fallen into a hidden basement, the harsh light of day revealing jumbled bones and skulls and a large metal door leading into darkness. The bulldozer at the orchard had a similar find. When they pushed the first dried husk of a tree over, tangled in the roots were two rib cages.
It didn't take the investigators long to figure out what had transpired, but when I asked my grandfather, he said they were always the most delicious apples.